


The Birth of Castiel

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But No Actual Sex (Sorry), Christmas Presents, Churches & Cathedrals, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Heavy Angst, Heavy Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, It's a well-balanced breakfast, M/M, Mention - Freeform, Past Child Abuse, Surprises, Trauma, but there's some cute stuff too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 08:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17179199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “C’mon, Cas, you don’t want Santa to Uber all the way back here to pick up his gift.”“You know how much this hurts me to even be here, Dean.” His voice trembles. He opens his mouth, but all that gets him is a set of clattering teeth. He turns his head, deciding to shift his focus on the smoke piling out a neighbor’s chimney and pretend like his own heat isn’t bottled up inside, jumpstarting a fever.“Do you trust me?” Dean’s voice is gentle. The only time Cas has heard it so soft was when they first made love, and over the phone, when Dean told him his father died.Cas is hesitant, but replies, “Of course.”Dean takes his hand and leads him inside.





	The Birth of Castiel

**Author's Note:**

> Helloo! I hope you all had a happy holiday ~ whatever you celebrated, and if you celebrated. If you didn't, all the power to you too!
> 
> I had a totally separate, more elaborate concept in mind for my 300th fic, but I got stuck and that's when this one hit me. I think it worked out in the end, because I hope this helps those of you who may be struggling, or knows someone who is struggling, with their sexuality around the holidays. Especially those in religious families, sometimes that can be a tough position. Hang in there, and know that *you* inspire me to write fics like this. So thank you.
> 
> And thank all ya'll, from one-time clickers to regular readers, for supporting me to continue doing what I love. You all mean a shitton to me on my own bad days, and make my good days a little brighter.
> 
> Enjoy! xx

“I knew you were serious about panties, but BDSM?”

“Calm down, Christian Grey. This isn’t  _that_  kind of gift.”

“At least give me a vowel.”

“How—?” He hears Dean scoff and crunch another forgotten fall leaf with his boot. It’s an ideal walkway for a game of crab: The possibility Cas’s loafers will land on the flipside of many small rocks is almost inevitable. “Eh, at least I upgraded from Dakota Johnson. It’s those fish eyes… Okay, Sajak: Let’s say your mouth will form a vowel when you see it.”

“Clever. But seriously, this is kind of scary. Are you even watching me?”

“Of course I’m watching you.”

Cas’s front side hits some sort of metal railing. He grumbles with a heavy sigh, inhaling distant, but pungent manure in the process.

“Hey, don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“How can you tell?! I have a blindfold!”

“Because I know you,” Dean says as Cas climbs what he hopes is the last step to wherever Dean’s taking him. “We’d see your gift a whole lot sooner if you weren’t gabbing at me.”

Cas stops and turns to face Dean’s general direction. “What’re you gonna do about it?” he teases, caressing his… wait, that’s his nose. “Huh? Spank me?”

“Cas, this really isn’t the—“

“Tie me down?” he continues, stroking his… nope, that’s his armpit. “Make me your slave?”

“Okay, Cas, that’s—“

“No, I know. You’re going to make me wait. Until I’m foaming at the mouth like I am right now. Edging me on. Making me so desperate to—“

Then, like a table ripped of its cloth, Cas’s eyes are bare to the sight before him. Despite being a layer shorter, his chest feels heavier. It’s like his heart is trapped between hardwood and glass. If someone’s close enough, they can probably hear it rattling between the two.

“Christ,” is all he can utter.

It’s exactly as he remembers it through the open double doors. Between the days-old incense rustling about in his nose, and the dust falling on his tongue. The beige-yellow walls, fit to hold ten-foot windows, and wealthy enough to be stained from brushes dipped in the holiest water. The wooden, domino pews on each side, and the red carpet running down the middle leading to the oval sectional with the shrine of Jesus behind the worn-down podium couldn’t be less apropos.

He manages to croak out four words, and he doesn’t know if they form a sentence. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking. So many questions, caught in the flood of bitter nostalgia: “Dean, my Christmas present.”

Dean understands what he’s saying, but his answer provides little insight: “It’s inside.”

“No.” Cas shakes his head slowly, then more furiously, because he can’t run. He can’t run because he’s rooted, yet again, in Pontiac soil. “There’s nothing in there I could possibly want.”

“C’mon, Cas, you don’t want Santa to Uber all the way back here to pick up his gift.”

“You know how much this hurts me to even be here, Dean.” His voice trembles. He opens his mouth, but all that gets him is a set of clattering teeth. He turns his head, deciding to shift his focus on the smoke piling out a neighbor’s chimney and pretend like his own heat isn’t bottled up inside, jumpstarting a fever.

“Do you trust me?” Dean’s voice is gentle. The only time Cas has heard it so soft was when they first made love, and over the phone, when Dean told him his father died.

Cas is hesitant, but replies, “Of course.”

Dean takes his hand and leads him inside. Cas could build a brick wall with how heavy he’s laying his tracks into the carpet. He feels closer to God in the sense of the heart attack brewing in his chest. Otherwise, he and the big man staring back at him on the giant mural couldn’t feel more different. For one, Jesus was wrapped in a swaddle when he was born. The only warmth Cas had after his birth are lingering scars from his father’s cigarettes.

Dean guides them to the front left pew and allows Cas to slip in. Cas sits, but keeps a tight grip on Dean’s hand.

While they wait for what seems like hours, Cas picks up on one similarity: Both he and Jesus have suffered at the hands of ignorance.

Cas shoots his head up at the multiple people ascending the stage. They’ll all of different sexes and race—and religion, he notices, seeing the two hijabs from the two women in the middle row. They’re not people he recognizes from twenty years ago, but they’re wearing the same purple and yellow robes.

“What’s this?”

“You said among many things about this church, you hated gospel music,” Dean says. He smirks leaning in. “So, this isn’t gospel music.”

“What’re you—?”

 _“It doesn't matter if you love him, or capital H-I-M,”_ the lead male, a bearded Mexican man with a strong accent, starts.

The white, Vin Diesel-esque man to the right of him grabs his hand and lifts them up. “ _Just put your paws up 'cause you were born this way, baby.”_

Cas blinks a few times. “Are they... singing Lady Gaga?”

“Shh.”

One of the Muslim women steps forward for the next verse:

_“My mama told me when I was young_

_We are all born superstars_

_She rolled my hair and put my lipstick on_

_In the glass of her boudoir”_

 

Then the other:

_“There's nothing wrong with loving who you are_

_She said, "'Cause he made you perfect, babe"_

_"So hold your head up girl and you'll go far,_

_Listen to me when I say…”_

The whole choir joins in for the chorus:

 

_“I'm beautiful in my way_

_'Cause God makes no mistakes_

_I'm on the right track, baby I was born this way_

 

_Don't hide yourself in regret_

_Just love yourself and you're set_

_I'm on the right track, baby_

_I was born this way_ ”

 

Tears trapped behind Cas’s eyes snake their way forward. He holds back the laugh pushing on his throat to keep them at bay.

_“In the religion of the insecure_

_I must be myself, respect my youth_

_A different lover is not a sin_

_Believe capital H-I-M,_

_I love my life I love this record and_

_Mi amore vole fe, yah”_

From Cas’s limited college French, he picks up on that last line and smiles. Dean turns to him with an even bigger one, and excuse him for using the name in vain, but Jesus, the rainbow colors shining through the stained glass make his freckles dance like pixie dust across his cheeks.

To his surprise, Dean jumps up from the pew and _joins in_ on the singing. He looks straight at Cas as he does.

 _“No matter gay, straight, or bi_  
Lesbian, transgendered life  
I’m on the right track baby  
I was born to survive…”

Everyone claps their hands for the following verse:

 _No matter black, white or beige_  
Chola or orient made  
I'm on the right track baby  
I was born to be brave”

Dean gestures for Cas. Cas is so distracted, he doesn’t notice the two heavier black women until they’re taking each outstretched, defiant hand and guiding him on stage.

The choir resumes on the previous verse, and Cas learns the words like he’s known them his whole life as the choir gathers around him:

 _“Whether life's disabilities_  
Left you outcast, bullied, or teased  
Rejoice and love yourself today  
'Cause baby you were born this way”

And the music plays on:

 _“Whether life's disabilities_  
Left you outcast, bullied, or teased  
Rejoice and love yourself today  
'Cause baby you were born this way”

 _“Whether life's disabilities_  
Left you outcast, bullied, or teased  
Rejoice and love yourself today  
'Cause baby you were born this way…”

 


End file.
